


Firelight

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, inspired by another work, not beta read we die like men, not sure what I'm doing here tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22258852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: I humbly gift this to @anniesburg because I just started writing after reading her perfect fic, Things Unbearable.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Comments: 33
Kudos: 465





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annhellsing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhellsing/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Things Unbearable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22056658) by [annhellsing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhellsing/pseuds/annhellsing). 



> I humbly gift this to @anniesburg because I just started writing after reading her perfect fic, Things Unbearable.

Your father opens the door to the large room. All you can see through the small gap is the licking flames of a fire in the hearth; bright orange on charred brown logs. And that scent - leather and citrus; clean soap and oft-washed linen.

“Your payment,” he calls in through the door, “for tomorrow.”

You glance back. Your father nods at you, and pushes you inside, closing the door. You hear the lock turn.

The Witcher sits on a low wooden trunk at the foot of the best bed in your one horse town’s only inn. His armour discarded, he wears a linen shirt that might once have been white, perhaps years ago now. He painstakingly cleans a broadsword that looks to be the same height as you, lifting it with ease. The tang of lemon oil floats to you across the room.

He doesn’t react to your presence in the room.

You know why you’re here. Your village is being slowly eaten away by a beast that comes in the night, a selkie type creature that lures your fishermen out to their rocks, only to allow nothing but skeletons to return.

Your father put word out to find a Witcher, but by the time he arrived, the profits your village usually made from the sale of caught fish had dwindled. Your father had little choice but to offer you, voted the most beautiful virgin in the village, as payment for ridding your people of the dangerous selkie.

“So, you’re the Witcher,” you say into the room, the only other sounds the swipe of fabric on metal, and the snap of the fire.

“Hmmm.”

“I’m here as your payment.” You hold the shawl around you loosely. It conceals a white dress that you father suggested you wear. To make your virginal status obvious. If only your father knew.

The Witcher finally turns at that, and the light catches on his handsome features as the flames flicker. His is a face of planes and angles, strong jaw, eyes of dark gold. You hadn’t expected him to be so, well -

Attractive. 

Captivating.

Intriguing.

“Not interested.”

You swallow. Regardless of his interest or no, if he doesn’t take  _ something _ from you, your village will go on being terrorised by the selkie. They could take your brother next. “Please.”

The Witcher -  _ Geralt, _ you’d heard your father say his name was - appraises you frankly, his expression unreadable, almost carefully blank. “Please what? Ruin you for any future prospects? Might as well gut you where you stand.”

You tensed at the words. A flicker of sympathy passed over Geralt’s features. “I know how the world works. It won't be kind to you, after I'm gone.”

Your eyes follow the line of his arms as he continues to methodically clean the sword. He’s big - broad, tall. You could easily use him as a mattress if the mood took you, stretch out over his warm, solid form-

“You can’t ruin me. I’m not a virgin,” you blurt out. “And I’m not afraid of you.”

He raises one ashen brow at this, and then inclines his head towards the bed. You sit down, still a few feet away from him, but close enough that you can see the gold of his eyes, the tired lines etched into his face. He looks like he needs sleep. And a friend.

“You expect me to take you. As payment.”

You nod slowly. “We don’t have enough coin. I don’t understand. My father offered and you accepted.”

“I didn’t accept. I didn’t say anything,” he mutters, setting his sword aside.

You frown. “You accepted the room. That counts. Is it me? I’m not to your taste?” You have no idea what Witchers like. If they like the pleasures of the flesh, and if they do, who they like it with. And how. Slow and gentle, fast and rough? Facing each other, or-

“Your thoughts are very loud.” His accented voice is deep in the quiet room with only the flames for company. “And I don’t recall saying you weren’t to my taste.”

Your mouth goes dry, because at his words, you’re picturing him naked over you, his face drawn in concentration as his hips work into you.

“Then what-”

“A bath.” Geralt stands up, and as you’re sitting, he fair towers over you - although he probably would even if you were standing to your full height. “We’ll start with a bath. Then  _ I _ may be to  _ your _ liking.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is revealed of Reader's past, and Geralt gets ready for a bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of past non-con in this chapter.  
> NO ACTUAL NON-CONSENSUAL SEX WILL TAKE PLACE IN THIS STORY (or infact any of my fics).

“My father locked the door,” you grouse. 

Geralt rotates a shoulder lazily. “I could break it down,” he says without inflection, as if it would be the easiest thing in the world. And for him, it probably would. You think he could lift you as easily as he takes a breath.

“Let’s try something else, first.” You bang on the door, three quick raps, the signal you and your father had agreed if something awful befell you, or if anything was needed. There’s a few beats of silence, then the door unlocks.

One of the more built stableboys appears in the gap. One who hasn’t been dragged into a watery grave by the selkie. Yet. "You're not meant to leave," he stage-whispers. "The Selkie...."

“The Witcher would like a bath drawn,” you tell him.

He gapes like a fish for a second, and then nods, scurrying downstairs. You shut the door and lean back against it, arms folded, looking your fill of Geralt. No, you hadn’t expected him to be…. Relatable. Compelling like this. You’d always been led to believe that Witchers were beast-like, emotionless killing machines.

You eye the huge broadsword. Yes, he could kill you, and probably with his bare hands, no sword needed. But he could have done any number of things to you by now, and he’s not even touched you.

“He’ll be a few minutes fetching the water.” When he doesn’t reply, just standing there, still, all that coiled power banked, you can’t resist poking him, like a child poking a dog with a stick. “Do you always bathe before ruining maidens?”

He scoffs. “You said you weren’t one.”

“My father thinks I am.”

Something passes over his face, something that might have been anger, but it’s gone in a flash. The calm, almost blank expression returns when he asks, “what happened?”

Your insides contract when you even think about telling the story. To keep your sanity, you’ve boiled it down to just four sentences, and that is all you allow yourself to think about that day. “Local lord’s son. He’d had too much ale. I was young. He hid us behind a tall bale of straw, stuffed my mouth with it, so I couldn’t scream.”

The Witcher’s face tightens, and thunder steals over his face, so dark that you almost recoil from the strength of the unrestrained  _ fury _ on his features. 

“You knew?” you ask softly.

“I suspected. Where is he now?”

You shrug, deliberately distancing yourself from the event. Sometimes although it was years ago, it seemed, especially in your dreams, to have happened yesterday. “I don’t know, and I’ve no wish to know.”

Geralt sat down on the bed, gazing up at you with those wolf-gold eyes. You imagine they see more than he’d ever let on. “Why?”

“Why what?” you ask, but you’re interrupted by the door banging open. The stableboy and several of his peers follow, carting two buckets of steaming water each. They unceremoniously deposit the water, one bucket after another, into the tin bath, until it’s three-quarters full. The stableboy digs into the pouch around his waist and offers a cake of soap and a large, worn towel to the Witcher with an awkward sort of bow.

Geralt inclines his head in thanks.

He waits until the door closes to add, “Why agree to this arrangement?”

Your eyes dart to the bath and back again, and then to his sold, broad form. “Perhaps it will allow me to get over my fear of… the beast with two backs. And if it doesn’t, well, then, I’ll have paid a Witcher to save my village from the worst monster we’ve seen in a very long time. And that’s enough.”

He arches one pale brow as he crosses the big room towards the steaming bath of water. “And I don’t count?”

“You’re no monster,” you say easily, and his eyes hold yours for a long moment, curious.

He starts to undress, slowly, and you think that he’d stop if you asked him to, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything. Your mouth is suddenly dry in the firelit chamber as he unlaces the neck of his shirt, pulling it over his head in a move that is graceful despite its everyday-ness. His chest is criss-crossed with scars, some white and old, some newer, the healing flesh pinker than his pale, almost moonlit skin. His waist narrows into serviceable black breeches, the metal buttons at the centre of them glinting in the light from the hearth. Your eyes are riveted to his body as he unpicks one button at a time, unhurriedly, not showing off but not self-conscious either. Just habitually undressing before a bath.

You swallow as he pushes the breeches down his thighs. He isn’t wearing underwear, but he’s half-turned from you which keeps most of his modesty intact. You force yourself to look away as he shucks the breeches and his boots, setting them neatly next to the tub.

When you look his way next, you hear his low groan as he settles into the water, and despite yourself, you wonder what it might take to coax that moan from him.

In the intervening years since  _ the incident, _ you’ve begun wondering what the pleasure between a man and woman is like. What  _ choosing _ to give yourself feels like. You’d considered it a time or two with friends. But should it have gone wrong, or should they have hurt you, or should you  _ have cried, _ then you’d have to face them anew each day. Never forgetting how it was between you and never risking baring yourself again.

The Witcher would be gone by midday tomorrow. He was a perfect litmus test.

“You really aren’t afraid?” Geralt asks softly, his rumbling words carrying to you across the space between your bodies.

“No.” And you aren’t. He’s been nothing but gentle to you. He could have snapped your neck easily, if he’d wanted to.

“Well, then.” He shifted in the water. The surface rippled, his reflection wavering. “Perhaps you’ll wash my back.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You & Geralt get to know each other a little better.

You stood frozen for a second. The air smelled of the steaming, clean water, with just a hint of lavender. Your eyes flick to Geralt, but he sits in the water, apparently content to wait until you’re ready to move. It could be now. It could be never.

He starts to slowly wash his chest, his movements methodical and unhurried. The water splashes gently, and you breathe in the humid air. And watching the Witcher, you know with a sudden clarity that nothing will happen that you don’t want. And something eases around your heart.

“I won’t look,” he rumbles. 

You move behind him and begin to disrobe. Once you start, it’s easy, and as promised, he doesn’t look. His head doesn’t move an inch and you imagine him just gazing at the other wall, cat-gold eyes relaxed as the water steams around him. Your clothing puddles around your feet and you give the well-intentioned white dress one last look. Geralt obligingly moves forward in the tub and you step in to sit behind him, resting your hands gingerly on his broad shoulders. You settle your legs either side of his hips, close to him but not touching him.

“Soap?”

Geralt pokes around in the water and without looking at you, offers the small cake of lavender scented soap. You take it and your fingers brush his. A little bit of something skates up your arm, awareness, or residual magic maybe.

You rub your palms over the soap and then after a moment’s hesitation, smooth them over Geralt’s broad, scarred back. He says nothing, but the way he inhales deeply  _ just like that _ tells you he appreciates the touch, the slide of the soap, the warmth of the water.

It’s easier like this, not seeing his face. Knowing you could get out of the tub any time you wanted, but you choose not to.

The scent of lavender hangs in the air like a promise. You circle your flattened palms over the Witcher’s heavily muscled back, feeling the ridge of a scar here, the softness of still-healing tissue there, just under his shoulder blade.

“How am I doing?”

He stretches, just slightly, and you feel the dance and play of muscles under your hands. It’s strangely soothing, his warm skin and the hot water and the silence of the cloistered room. 

“Honestly? It’s bliss.”

The word falling from his lips is somehow more intimate than sitting behind him, you both naked. The water covers any part of him it would be improper for you to see under normal circumstances. You almost snort.  _ Nothing about this situation is normal. _

You squeeze at the tight muscle where his shoulder meets his neck, and he  _ moans. _ The sound is pure sin, no more, no less, and it makes something you’d thought long dead coil warmly, lazily, in your lower belly.

_ Well, then. _

Geralt makes the sound again, the sound that makes your insides melt and your breath catch, and you continue the massage. He’s sitting up straight, his posture military in its stiffness, and you think that’s probably so he can avoid touching you suddenly, making you skittish. His unspoken concern warms you even more than the steaming water ever could.

“Witcher.”

He half-turns, and his profile is handsome in the low light from the hearth and a few, almost-guttering-out candles. Loose wisps of hair curl around his face, almost boyish, a stark contrast with his warrior’s body. 

“Face me?”

He turns slowly in the water, graceful almost, the languid movements giving you time to stop him, say no, get out of the water. You do none of those things. Instead you relish being in control, and you lift your hands to his face, cupping that strong jaw, watching a muscle in his cheek flex.

He mutters your name. “If this is about the selkie-”

“It isn’t.” And you speak with conviction. “I think it stopped being about the selkie when you referred to yourself as a monster.” When he flinches, just a tiny movement, but you catch it still, you add, “I just see a man, with scars like mine, only yours are on the outside.”

He lets out a long breath, and leans into your touch. He’s waiting, you realise, for you to make a move, so he doesn’t startle you. He’s ceding control, and Gods, that makes you ache and melt all at once. You lean up to touch your lips to his.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE SMUTTY CHAPTER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, I enjoyed writing this. Not beta read (we die like men).

The Witcher freezes for a scant moment, and you think:  _ we’ve been told they don’t feel. _ But Geralt feels as deeply as any man, deeper, maybe. You know it just by looking into his compelling amber eyes.

Then the moment passes and he’s kissing you back, his warm lips parting under yours. He tastes of honeyed ale and it’s addictive, this unexpected sweetness, both in his taste and his demeanour. You cup his face still, and his stubble is rough against your palms. You welcome the tiny scrapes, they keep you in the moment, anchored to him. 

Wanting more as the steam from the fragrant water keeps you warm, you slide a hand into his hair. It’s soft, warm, and you toy with it absently as your tongues dance together in a ritual as old as the clouds.

Geralt groans against your mouth and it’s one of the best sounds you’ve heard in a long time. You unfold your legs and move to sit on his thighs, your stomachs not touching, but  _ closer.  _ Close enough that you feel the jump of his desire for you against your skin. It should scare you, but it doesn’t. He’d never hurt you, and in some ways you think you knew that as soon as he’d spoken about ruining you.

A shiver runs through you at the thought and you finally press closer to Geralt, the apex of your body pressed against the base of his erection. He sighs, long and slow, and his arms, previously braced on the side of the tub behind you, wrap around you and pull you close. He’s so solid and warm and  _ broad _ , and your heart thumps a quick one-two. You breathe his name and break the kiss, pressing your face into the muscled curve where his neck meets his shoulder. You hold each other there for some time, not speaking, breathing one another in, feelings your hearts beat together, as the water licks at your bodies warmly, tiny waves on the otherwise still surface.

“Not like this,” Geralt finally rumbles, tilting your chin up. He brushes a chaste kiss over your lips and stands with your in his arms. The water cascades off you, and you muffle a half-gasp, half-laugh in his shoulder as he sets you down on the wooden floorboards, fetching a towel. He dries you carefully, warmth in his eyes despite the serious set of his mouth. Once you’re dry to his satisfaction, he tends to himself, then hangs the towel on the side of the bath and takes your hand.

“You can still leave,” he says simply.

You look pointedly at the evidence that he doesn’t want you to. He shrugs. “Witchers become used to the company of our hands.”

There’s so much acceptance and sadness and  _ loneliness _ rolled into those words, and you can’t take it. You lead him to the bed and lie down on it. He covers you, warming you, and as if your body knows what it wants and was just  _ waiting, all this time, _ for him and only him, your legs move up and around his waist.

He makes that sound again, the one you can’t get enough of. His arms are braced either side of your head, and those amber eyes close, revealing long lashes, as his mouth finds yours again. You arch against him, but he makes no move to rush. You hear a keening sound and realise it’s  _ you. _ Some part of you wants to get this over with, to prove you aren’t afraid, that sex isn’t always going to be this lingering, crushing nightmare-

“Relax,” Geralt murmurs against your mouth, and then he’s gone, moving down your body to ensure you follow his command.

Your legs part and your hands tangle in his hair as he puts himself to work. You didn’t know they taught  _ that _ in Witcher School, you think, but as his tongue draws lazy circles right  _ there, _ you lose the capacity to think at all, stars bursting behind your eyes as your muscles contract hard, over and over.

He holds you afterwards, and you pillow your head on his chest. “What about you?”

His chest moves under your ear as he half-chuckles. “That was for me.”

But it isn’t enough. You know he’s a Witcher and he’s faced manticores and hellbeasts and harpies, and that a selkie is probably just all in a day’s work, but he could be gone tomorrow. Without further preamble, you slide on to top of him. Geralt merely arches a brow in surprise as you spread your palms over his chest. You’re very, very wet from the attentions of his mouth, and you position yourself easily. Geralt’s palms are warm on your hips as he helps ease you down. His eyes go dark, black as the night outside as he watches you move, cautiously at first. This is unchartered territory for you, as a pleasurable activity anyway, and you sense that he’s leaving all the decision making to you. He is yours to command, and the thoughts warms you more than the waning fire at your back.

You gaze into his heavy-lidded eyes as your bodies move together. He is solid and strong beneath you, unwavering. You could, you realise with certainty, pile almost any load upon him and he would not break.The thought makes your heart clench for him. What he’s had to endure, from man and beast alike. You promise yourself that however long he is yours, you will show him nothing but kindness.

Pleasure crests inside you, and he tumbles over that sweet cliff edge with you. You slide bonelessly on to his chest, and vaguely register that he pulls the thick linen sheets up over your tangled bodies.

You sleep better than you have in quite some time, Geralt’s heart beating under yours.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night over, it's time for Geralt to fulfill his end of the bargain.

In the morning, you wake to a heaviness in the bed beside you. Geralt sleeps, his chest rising and falling, and you curl into him. He stirs briefly, turning to drape an arm over you, pulling you closer. You relax into the embrace. He smells of lavender from the bath, and just the whisper of polished leather. You breathe him in, trying to commit the scent of his skin, the play of his muscle under your hands, to your memory, and knowing you’ll fail. If only you had more time. He murmurs in his sleep, nuzzling into your hair. He's warm and solid and broad, and you smooth your hands over him greedily, delighting in the scrape of his coarse body hair against your palms, the press of his half-hard cock against your thigh. He's lazily aroused, content to hold you, and you're content to revel in his embrace.

Time passes. You’re not sure how much. When you wake again, it’s to a pounding on the door and your father’s voice.

“Witcher! It’s time!”

Geralt sits up, glancing at the door. His eyes are sharp, all traces of slumber gone in an instant. “Get dressed,” he tells you, gently.

Before you can leave the bed, he pulls you close against the solid wall of his warm chest, kisses you deeply. His taste is addictive and you spear your hands into his hair, knowing you’ll probably never see him again after this morning. You dress quickly, opening the door to your father’s expectant face as Geralt tugs on his armour.

Your father’s wary gaze darts from you to Geralt, and then to the rumpled bedsheets. “Everything was… as expected, Witcher?”

Geralt nods, not looking at you. You’re glad. If he did, you know his gaze might reveal the tenderness you shared, and you want to wrap that up like a secret, clutch it close to your chest and remember it later, in private. If you keep it out of the light, you think hopelessly, maybe it will never fade.

“Good, good. And the selkie?”

“On my way.” Geralt finally turns to you, giving you a sharp nod. His gaze holds yours for a second, and you meet his eyes, struggling to say everything in your heart without words. You know, just from what you see in his amber-ringed eyes, that  _ Witchers don’t feel  _ is pure horseshit.

He passes your father in the doorway and then you heard the thud of his boots down the stairs of the inn. Your father enters the room, braces his hands on your shoulders.

“You did well. You have ensured that our village will be safe.” You nod dumbly, and your father’s face contracts with concern. “He didn’t hurt you?”

“No.”  _ Not at all. _ Unless you counted the fact that he’d healed your heart and then cracked it wide open a few scant hours later.

You’re helping some of the other girls prepared potatoes and turnips for a stew later in the inn’s large kitchen when he returns. The door bangs open. You smell him before you see him - not the lavender and polished leather combination from earlier, but blood and gore. It hangs off him as he crosses to the centre of the inn’s tavern room, the selkie’s head in one bloody, gloved hand. Its sightless eyes stared endlessly, the irises green like seawater. Tendrils of hair, black as seaweed, hang around its lifeless face.

You bobble the turnip you’re holding and catch it just in time.

Your father takes the head from Geralt and cheers his name. The other patrons join in, and you feel a moment’s giddy relief. Your village will be safe. Your brother will be safe. The only thing not safe is your heart, but it is far too late to recoup that. You’d give it up again to save the people of your hometown. Except….

Geralt turns as if you’ve called his name. Your fingers fly to your lips but you know you haven’t spoken. Your gazes meet and hold for a second that makes the backs of your eyes burn. Then he nods at your father as if to say,  _ debt paid, _ and stalks out of the tavern. And you go back to peeling turnips, saying nothing as the fledgling flame of hope in your chest fizzles out to nothing.

******

Your father stays at the tavern late, celebrating the death of the selkie. Almost everyone stays, drinking and cheering and singing. They deserve it, you think. Your father dances with your brother, delighted that his son won’t be taken from him.

You’re happy too, but the sadness still chases your heart. You’re almost blind with grief by the time you reach your cottage of the edge of the village. You reach for the door handle when the soft nicker of a horse reaches your ears. You turn. Oh horseback, Geralt’s silhouette is kissed by moonlight. You stop in your tracks, your mouth open on a silent question.

“I thought you’d gone,” you finally say, the words sticking in your throat.

He gazes down at you, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Tried.”

“What happened?” He’s here. That should tell you all you need to know, but your heart  _ wants _ to hear him say it.

“I left something important behind.” And he extends a gloved hand to you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adored writing this. Thank you for reading it.
> 
> I'm going to take Geralt x Reader and Jaskier x Geralt requests over at my Tumblr, @yespolkadotkitty


End file.
